


Storm in the Quiet

by synthe



Category: Hellboy (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abundance of Sass, Body Horror, Body Sharing, Crossovers Done Tediously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Faerie Courts, Game of Infinity Stones and Shiny Space Thrones, Gen, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), M/M, Magic weapons, Multi, Other, Post - Major Character Death, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Hellboy II: The Golden Army, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Thanos Courts Death, Troll Market Adventures, Álfheimr | Alfheim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synthe/pseuds/synthe
Summary: With no weapon to challenge Thanos after his failure in New York, Loki hides away in the Troll Market to plan. There he steals a silver lance rumored to slay immortals. He doesn’t expect to meet the soul possessing the weapon, or form a strange alliance with an elf of legend against his foes. (Loki Laufeyson/Nuada Silverlance)(Next chapter update: Nov 1, 2019 - Edits still in Progress, Temp hiatus)*





	1. Runaways and Restless Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kings Among Runaways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/425883) by [dfotw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dfotw/pseuds/dfotw). 



> Disclaimer: I own nothing except the silly poetry at the beginning of each chapter. MCU belongs to Marvel and the big bad D; Hellboy to Mike Mignola; Hellboy movies to the lovely Guillermo del Toro (Totoro).
> 
> II: This story deals with mature themes such as death, grieving, unhealthy relationships, mind games, torture, violence, vengeance, anxiety, and more. Please be considerate and aware of your mental health. Rating is subject to change at any time.
> 
> III: A lot of the Celtic, Gaelic, and Norse mythos referenced in this story are loosely inspired from the original tales. I do not claim to be an expert in these fields, but will aim to write with the utmost care/consideration. There is considerable deviation from the original tales.

  
_There once lived a prince for each realm of the Nine_  
_They once warred for victory, for wrath, the divine_  
_As each of them fell, greed poisoned his heart_  
_And it curse-bound them all, even Nine worlds apart_  
  
.......

In hindsight, the sorcerer should have sought a solution to his problem— _other_ than stealing another magical artifact.

An angry swarm of trolls stormed into the square behind him. They crashed and collided with vendors in their haste, overturning carts and spilling countless items into the streets: food items rolled, charms cracked against pavement, lanterns sputtered out in puddles nearby. The Marketplace quickly descended into chaos.

_‘Well, this is going well.’_

Loki darted through the streets as fast as his legs permitted, cloak obscuring his form in the shadows. He willed his legs to move faster, farther. His heart thundered wildly as the mob brandished clubs to hurl in his direction, each breath forming a cloud in the air before him.

He didn’t dare wait for reinforcements, or consider the kind of strength an angry troll merchant possessed upon finding valuable goods missing. One of those items burned against the sorcerer’s back as he fled, as if it silently demanded he return. He could feel a welt forming across his shoulder blades where the lance’s ancient magic warred with protective runes in his armor.

One troll flung a club at his skull, narrowly missing by a sparrow’s breath. The thief skidded around a corner in time, bolting past a gaggle of street performers in bright robes. Tensing, he ducked to avoid the second attack. _'Almost there. Just a bit further.’_

Grabbing a sign to steady his turn, the thief’s boots slid sharply across wet pavement. Momentum nearly carried him into the cart of a passing goblin merchant. He bounded over the startled creature and into a quiet, dank alley choked with plants before the goblin could call for the guard trolls. Pipes rained water into his cloak, and a wall of vines threatened to ensnare him. Still he moved on.

In his haste, Loki failed notice the charm that fell from his armor—or the shadowy figure that stooped to collect it.

Pulling his hood low over his eyes, the sorcerer sprinted hard toward the edge of the city. Faeries flitted about in the waning glow of the Marketplace, and beyond them a tunnel stretched into darkness. There, his pursuers could not follow without worsening their iron sickness. The labyrinth of tunnels outside the Market offered good refuge from wandering eyes and vigilant hunters.

The thief’s grin flashed like quicksilver in the darkness. Despite the pain of the weapon against his back, he felt truly free for the first time in weeks.

 _Finally_ , an immortal-slaying weapon was his.

.......

Three months passed since his escape from New York. Every morning Loki expected to wake up in a cell with his hands bound and tongue sliced, once and for all awaiting judgment for his crimes against the Nine realms. It made no difference if they bound him in gold or caged him with metal. If they tortured, ravaged or lavished him, he would be a prisoner all the same. That was a fate Loki would outlast as long as he can-- _even_ _if_  that made him a coward.

Gazing down at the lance in his hands, Loki wondered if such a weapon could land a blow against his foes. Could it slay an Asgardian? Easily. An army? Perhaps. A titan that fancied himself a god? _Well_ …

_‘I’ll simply need to figure out how to wield it.’_

Elven magics sparked to life as his touch. As he traced over the handle’s inscription, the blade pulsed with a promise of death. Power thrived within it. How many demons met their end at this blade? Did gods fall to its sting as well?

 _‘You could always discover that for yourself,’_ taunted a voice at the back of his mind. _‘End your suffering before the real war begins.’_

Loki’s grip tightened on the lance until his knuckles turned white. He shoved back against the black void of his own thoughts, willing them aside for just a while longer. _No_ —he would not face death again now.

“I’ve survived worse,” he murmured to no one aloud. “I can do this. Yes…”

Now was not the time to return to the surface without a plan. He was drained, homeless, and currently topped the list of two Midgardian organizations: SHIELD and the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. The latter—the BPRD—was new to him. From weeks of scrying, he’d gleaned several pieces of information: first, that the BPRD employed paranormal beings to counteract forces threatening Midgard. Secondly, that unlike SHIELD they kept their agents on a much tighter leash. Loki couldn’t find much on their operatives outside several press mentions of a red-horned demon, a fish man, and woman who walked in fire.

Midgard’s favored heroes proved the least of his worries. Beyond Asgard and the Chitauri, the Mad Titan waited somewhere to make his next move. Eventually he would come to claim penance for the failures of his pawns—including the _Jotun_ sorcerer that slipped through his fingers.

 _‘There is nowhere in this universe you can hide,’_ whispered his doubts. Oddly enough, they possessed the same deep whisper as The Other. _‘There is nowhere His forces cannot reach.’_

The sorcerer leaned back against the wall of his refuge, counting out each exhalation to steady his panic. His skin itched, pulse fluttering against his collar. After a moment he managed to focus on the details of the room around him. Blank walls, curved ceiling, dripping pipes. A cylinder. A map. A scrying mirror amid scattered gears among notes by his bedding. _Dwindling rations._

_‘I’ll need to scavenge again soon.'_

Loki added food to his ever-growing list of concerns. Tonight marked the beginning of his fourth month of refuge on Midgard. In his escape, he turned to the only magical place between realms he knew: the Troll Market beneath the Brooklyn bridge. It was one of the few magical places left on this side of Midgard—not quite separate from this realm, but rather one that bled into part of another world entirely. He could hide here for a while if he kept on the move.

_‘You will be found by someone. And there will come a time when you plead for death. **He** will not grant it, and you will suffer greatly.’_

Loki shoved out any thought of the Chitauri, Thor, Frigga and Odin. The Titan grinning back from his nightmares.

_‘Perhaps SHILED or the BPRD will find you first. You are magical, alien enough to categorize and dissect. Perhaps that is a more merciful fate for your failure.’_

Clenching his teeth together, the god curled into himself. The demons in his mind rallied, though many had yet to reach him in reality. ‘ _I am resourceful. I will not be found_.’ Not by SHIELD, not Asgard, not another Midgardian band of misfits, not _Thor_. If anyone held claim to Loki’s soul, it would ultimately be himself. Still, no reach of space was free of the Mad Titan’s’ influence. Loki feared he could never run far enough. It was either obtain a tool to use to his advantage, or flee until he reached the edge of the cosmos.

_‘I have a tool. I will outlast. I will endure. I will, ultimately, somehow...survive.’_

Wrapping the silver lance in a shredded piece of his cloak, the sorcerer spread out on his makeshift bed of tapestries. Dark strands of his hair mingled with the intricate pattern of the old garments; and for a time he wondered what kind of fey hand had woven them. Swaddled among them like a child, the passing thought gave Loki a strange sense of longing. _‘How were they forgotten in a place like this? Left to rot, same as I.’_

Loki closed his eyes against the darkness and tried to dream of anywhere else.

.......

“ _The humans, they will tire of you…_ ”

Green eyes snapped awake in a place blurred by fog and shadow. Whispers carried on the wind through the cavern like forgotten ghosts. As Loki paced down a crumbling bridge into a city of ruin, he struggled to find anything in tact amidst the broken buildings, gaping windows and scattered bones. _‘What is this place?’_

“ _They have already turned against you…_ ”

The dwellings here comprised a world beneath others. This city must have once been home to many creatures grand and terrible: goblins, trolls, elves, wisps—all soldiers, blacksmiths, bakers, artisans and more. He tried to imagine their souls alive here. Thriving.

Among the whispers that tore through the forgotten plain, one stood out loudest among the others. “ _Is it them or us? Which holocaust should be chosen?…_ ”

The deep sorrow it carried wrapped a chill around his bones. Distant, like a memory.

“ _We die...and the world will be poorer for it._ ”

The cavern stretched into a void beyond the ancient city; buildings crumbling away into the abyss below. One wrong step along the ancient bridge planks and the sorcerer would join the falling debris. ‘ _Easy_ ,’ he reminded himself. ‘ _Take it slow_.' Each step felt like an eternity, but Loki refused to falter in his path. Gravity shifted every few seconds, and his heart sank when the bridge creaked and trembled with his weight.

He stood almost halfway across, fighting vertigo over the open maw of the chasm. This time when the voice spoke again, the words no longer felt like the echoes of a forgotten soul—rather something very much alive and malevolent demanding notice.

“ _You possess that which does **not** belong to you_.”

Loki paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The lance strapped to his back flared in warning. _‘You.. Who are you? Where are you?’_

A creaking, splintering sound met his ears. The sorcerer scrambled for rope as the bridge gave out beneath him, staring helplessly as the planks fell away through his fingers. For an interminable amount of time he dangled by a single rope, waiting. The more his muscles strained to hold on, the harder his heart thundered against his ribs. Time around him slowed to a stop.

“Please, wait—”

“ ** _Surrender it_**.”

He could not—would not—surrender what he had taken; not when it granted him his only chance at survival. He had no weapon left against half a galactic empire, much less an immortal foe. If he returned—

“ _The price of cowardice will cost you **everything**._”

One moment, Loki remained tethered to his rope. The next, he felt the threads snap in his grip. As he plummeted into the open jaws of the chasm below, his pale lips parted around the form of a scream. Gazing up at the city beyond, he could have sworn he spied a figure perched at the edge watching him descend.

Watching as the abyss swallowed him whole.

.......

Loki jolted awake with a start. Panic clenched a tight fist in his chest, and his trembling hands grasped for the frigid stone beneath him. A thin sheen of sweat drenched his tunic despite the cold air of the tunnels. For a moment, he lingered in the sensation of freefall.

 _‘I’m alive.’_ His heartbeat reminded him. _‘We’re alive.’_

The sorcerer took a moment to collect his bearings. When he inhaled, he caught the smell of damp earth and rot. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he noticed a bed of autumn leaves peppering the cloak and blankets around him. That was strange.

Silver winked at him in the darkness where light fell over the lance. He reached for it, then drew back at the heat radiating from its hilt; the blade burned hot as if recently smelted.

Loki recalled the figure watching his descent in the dream. _‘Who are you, really?’_ No mere ghost possessed the power to manipulate a dreamscape.

That entity— _something_ —was trying to communicate with him. He doubted it allied with Thanos, for no Chitauri or Asgardian soldiers had stormed his settlement; nor had an alien beast sprung from the shadows to collect his hide. Loki experienced many different nightmares and delusions under the Tesseract, but none of them felt quite like this—ancient, fey, forgotten. _Lost_.

A smarter individual would have returned the lance to the Troll Market, or perhaps thrown it into the bottom of a ravine.

Loki chose to try something else.

.......

No matter his experience with magic, the sorcerer picked a new location each time he peered into the void. When he scried across realms he risked being seen by Heimdall—or worse. Spells between the Nine required careful preparation. One too many encounters with the wrong void beasts kept Loki vigilant of what stared back through his mirrors. Some things made the Mad Titan look a fussing child by comparison.

Placing the lance inside a focusing rune, Loki gave his wards a cursory glance. The sigils would hold for a time. Blood glistened under faint green orbs of magelight around his circle; an ever-present reminder of his fate, should he fail.

_‘I must be quick.’_

Green light flared to life in his hands, lingering in the air as he traced runes across the mirror. Silver rippled over the glass in waves. After completing the incantation, Loki peered at the surface and waited. For several long minutes nothing appeared.

What would call this entity to speak with him?

Lowering the barriers in his mind, Loki allowed the darkness to creep in and fester. Nightmares flickered across the mirror as living horrors made flesh. Things that could not— _should_ not—exist tore through his memories left by the Tesseract; whether they belonged to him or not, he still wasn’t sure.

“See what I have seen,” he whispered. “Know what comes to claim Midgard for its own.”

Heat radiated from the lance once more. Green flames burst to life around the focusing rune and cast the elven glyphs of the weapon in jade. Just when he thought he could hold his concentration no longer, something appeared in the mirror at last: dark, distorted, desolate ruins. The fey realm from his vision flashed out of smoke and shadow like the a lens flare.

Loki recalled the voice from before. Soon enough, that sorrowful timbre whispered through his being like wind. “ _We die, and the world will be poorer for it…_ ”

An echo from memory—that was a starting point.

“I possess something of yours,” he murmured into the darkness. Normally Loki danced around subjects with fanciful words and tricks; but here, ancient magic demanded straight questions and answers. Every word held a consequence when conversing with an Ancient.

For a moment there was only silence. And then…

“ ** _You have stolen something of mine_**.”

Well, this was off to an excellent start. Loki whetted his lips and paused. “Perhaps  _borrowed_ is a better term. It was for a greater purpose—“

“ ** _Thief!_** ”

Loki flinched as the flames burned higher around him. A pair of malevolent gold eyes glared back from the depths of his mirror, all other details shrouded by smoke. The entity’s rage cracked in the air around him like static before a storm.

“ _ **You will answer**_.”

This time when he fell through the fold of reality, Loki anticipated the forceful descent. He landed unceremoniously in the center of a massive war chamber, glass shards digging painfully into his back. _Not glass. Metal_. Loki groaned, rolling over to drag himself off the ground. Once steady, he paused to take in the details around him.  
  
Broken gears and gold plating littered the floor around him like bones. Gold-leaf patterns crept across crimson walls, forming a royal seal over a keyhole doorway at the far side of the chamber. Massive gears ticked around the room’s center platform, creating an automated stage. Everywhere he stepped, broken machine parts crushed underfoot. He suspected them to be soldiers or strange clockwork sentinels sleeping beneath the forgotten city.

_‘Is this a rather recent memory, or am I witnessing a view out of time?’_

Loki spied other items among the debris: a melted crown, a fallen sword, and a pair of marble statues. He stopped to collect the blade and examine each figure. Little remained of the first statue, details crumbling away into nothing. Loki raked a hand through the debris before standing and hefting himself onto the gears. The second statue remained in tact: a delicate-faced woman with a serene expression, one hand outstretched toward someone. He pressed his palm to hers out of curiosity, then flinched at the scalding heat that coursed through his bones.

“You _**dare**_?”

Strong hands locked around the sorcerer's throat. With his next breath, a phantom force lifted and shoved him against the wall. Darkness filled the edges of his vision, coalescing around the apparition pinning him there. When rough fingers tightened around his throat in a vice, a palpable heat seared through his armor. Those gold eyes burned so much brighter up close—much sharper and odious than they had through the mirror. Shadow blotted out details of the apparition's form, but what was visible glistened like obsidian, cracked in several places like stone. Long hair drifted like wisps of smoke on a phantom wind.

“You have taken that which was not yours to find,” the apparition hissed. “Speak and answer earnestly, sorcerer. I will _not_ tolerate lies.”

Loki coughed as the figure loosened their grip. Gasping, he collapsed to his knees and fought down the indignation burning behind his eyes. He waiting for the darkness to recede before standing once more. The light revealed the war room for what it was in reality: a faded museum of broken soldiers and death.

Taking in the destruction, Loki willed his nerves to settle. “Something wretched comes to claim Midgard for an empire. It will bring only ruin and death to all if none rise to oppose it.”

“You seek to stop its destruction?” Those gold eyes flickered with mockery. Without the constant haze of smoke and shadow around them, up close Loki noticed the texture of their form--countless fissures running through strong limbs and intricate armor. Tendrils of darkness bled from the figure in places, as if centuries of malice could not be contained by this form alone. “I have long waited for humanity to suffer for its greed. Let the Earth be forgotten as we _all_ have been.”

“None of this ends with Midgard,” the sorcerer hissed. For a moment, desperation threatened to bubble over the surface of his sanity. An echo of the Mad Titan’s laugh coursed through his bones. “Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Niflheim, Jotunheim, my own home— _all_ Nine Realms are at risk of slaughter by a tyrant that fancies himself a god.”

“Your home?” inquired the specter.

Loki sighed bitterly through his teeth. There was little point in hiding it now. “I am one of the  _Jotnar_.”

Darkness shifted, and the apparition paced in a circle around him. Studying. Cataloguing his weaknesses and mannerisms for later. “You have wandered quite far from home.”

“ _Fled_ ,” Loki corrected. “My life is at stake, and I have nothing with which to defend it.” The earnestness in his tone surprised him. Perhaps the weeks of hiding, isolation and hardship had weathered his will; the once-prideful prince paused short of a plea to this being. “My allies are dead. I’ve nowhere left to hide in the miserable realm Midgard has become.”

Those vibrant, ephemeral eyes blinked. “Tell me, sorcerer. What is your life worth, that you would sacrifice the rebirth of a realm to save it?”

“I am a king.”

“As am I.” The apparition regarded him with less malice than before. Such a profound sense of sadness and rage crashed over Loki then; the more he stared, the more his blood surged alongside a flood of foreign, volatile magic.

“Show me,” he whispered.

At the back of his mind, new images came to life through the veil. _Fire, clashing blades, mechanical soldiers rolling and crashing and slicing their swords toward a red-horned warrior._ Gold light flickered off the silver lance as it spun. Loki failed to catch the details of the lance's wielder when it clashed against the red giant's curved blade—the sword Loki claimed among the debris.

The silver lance was powerful, fast, and deadly in combat. However, the longer Loki looked into the vision, the more he noticed the woman at the back of the chamber. She was an elf, lovely and delicate, sorrowful as she watched the battle unfold. Her large golden eyes and intricate scarring caught his attention first; for such markings were worn by elves of royal descent on Alfheim. Producing a slim dagger from the fold of her sleeve, she paused to consider those fighting before her. She waited, as if searching for something. When a look of finality crossed her features, the elf plunged the blade directly through her breastbone, directly into her heart.

Pain shattered through Loki’s chest. As vertigo overcame him, his knees threatened to give out beneath him. As the scene receded, he braced himself against the wall, shaking.

“A lady of _Alfheimr_ ,” he whispered, lowering his hand away from the phantom wound. His gaze fixed on the lone marble statue of the woman across the room. _‘Oh…’_

“I too have lost everything I hold dear. Now you see why I am done protecting this realm.”  
  
Grief and anguish soured the apparition’s words. Against his better judgment, Loki reached across the space between them. His hand brushed the specter’s charred stone cheek, and for a moment green light cut through the shadows. As the darkness receded, the sorcerer suddenly forgot how to breathe.

His armor was exquisite: bone-bead plates over an ivory tunic, all secured by a scarlet sash and the royal golden seal of his Clan. Silver-white hair turned to gold at the tips, framing a face equally beautiful and terrible. Years of grief creased his brow and hollowed his cheekbones. Obsidian lips turned down in a permanent scowl. The royal scar carved a path across his face with intricate lines, and shadows darkened around familiar molten gold eyes.

Eyes like those of the woman from the vision, except  _these_ now regarded him with rage. “Have you not seen enough?” snarled the elf, drawing back.

“Wait.” Darkness returned to his form in tendrils, obscuring the elf in the shroud of his own grief. Loki offered his hand—willing the other to grasp it. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“There is nothing left here for either of us,” said the elf. “My people are suffering, my family is dead. You have stolen a relic that ultimately alone cannot stop a war across worlds.”

“There is always something left to protect,” Loki challenged. Norns, he was beginning to sound like _Thor_. “Your people still remain very much alive, though they are currently scattered. Will you not act for them?”

“My army is useless in this crypt, with their control piece melted. I have used everything in my power.” The elf spread his hands wide, turning in a circle to indicate the room. A grin slashed across his features, something about it not quite sane. “In the end, it was not enough.”

“Yet you remain trapped here."

“And what of it?” snapped the elf. “What care do you hold for my people? You claim you to be  _Jotnar_ , yet you wear the form of an Aesir over your bones. What kind of king runs this far from his realm if he has nothing left to gain?”

The sorcerer exhaled sharply at the barb and willed his rage to temper. An aura of magical energy cracked with impatience around him, but he knew the elf was trying to bait him into surrender. He would not fall for it.

“A _coward_ ,” spat the elf with centuries’ worth of bitterness. “I died as a King should die: by the hand of my foe, fighting for my people. You are unworthy of the weapon you now possess.”

“And _you_ are in no position to make demands I return it,” the sorcerer fired back. Venom laced his tongue.

“How **_dare_** you—...”

“Self-loathing keeps you tethered to this realm. You will continue to darken and rot until nothing but ashes remain. Trapped souls to not cease to exist, your highness. They only twist and distort more with time. Your memories will never fade, though your physical form will. Eventually so shall your ability to speak.”

For all his arrogance, a genuine look of fear crossed the elf’s eyes.

Loki continued. “You will not remain in this form forever. If I trade or destroy your lance, it will not erase your tether to this plain.”

The elf considered him for a long moment. “How do you know the mysteries of Death?”

“My daughter rules in her realm.”

Before the other could inquire further, Loki conjured an image of Helheim around them. Vast mountain ranges crept alongside deep crevices carved into the earth. An aurora-borealis effect flickered from green light through heavy fog obscuring much of the landscape. Bones of beasts and men alike scattered the plain. Where shadows flickered, voices echoed in varying degrees of despair and anguish.

“This is not all of what the realm holds. Hel is a vast and ever-shifting dreamscape that conforms to the nightmares of the lost, or grants peace and joy to the departed at rest.”

“So this is to be my fate. Wandering inside a delusion or nightmare of my own making.” The elf’s voice wavered, and his gaze flicked around the room in uncertainty. Now that his anger had abated, his solid form appeared once more. “Am I there now as we speak?”

“Not entirely,” mused the sorcerer. A darker part of him relished the royal’s discomfort. Long-lived kings spoke so greatly of death and legacy and honor; yet when faced with the truth, so many of them still shrank back before their spirits entered the veil. Loki and Hela both found the pattern intriguing.

 _‘I am no coward,’_ he wanted to hiss. Instead, Loki kept his tone gentle and sympathetic. “You see now why I do not wish to send half the universe here.”

“It is a fate deserving of humanity,” the elf snarled. “But your enemy...you claimed he wished to rule. Would he truly place so many from the Nine here?”

“He does not discriminate against elf, troll, man, dwarf, giant…” Loki paced around the other as he continued. “With all the bloodshed among the Nine realms, do you think Midgardians are the only ones capable of savagery?”

 _Oh_ , he played this game well. The hatred and revulsion in the elf’s eyes only heightened his pride. Loki could be cruel if he must. He would not allow anyone to underestimate that again.

“The Aesir ignored their pact with your people. Perhaps a thousand years before your exile to Midgard. Alfheim suffers for that negligence, still.”

“My people are more than capable of waging war, lie-weaver.”

“Have you seen Alfheim for yourself?”

The elf royal held his silence for a time. “I am over four-thousand years old. The Clan of Bethmoora journeyed to Earth far earlier than that. We were not exiled. We sought to explore, expand, create—…”

“As did the Aesir, dwarves of Niflheim, and Vanir.” Loki dispelled the illusion of Helheim around them and came to stand beside the kneeling royal. Ivory fingers clasped elf woman’s stone palm.

“Is she your queen?” Loki inquired.

“My sister,” he said. “Nuala.” He spoke her name like a prayer. Loki recalled the raw power and vehemence that burned from the elf for approaching his sister's statue. Seeing their likeness gave him pause; as did the fact the royal had not denied his question.

“She killed us both, but damned only one. Perhaps this is a fitting fate,” sighed the elf.

Frustration fizzed in Loki’s veins again. “And what of the others? Have you forgotten your realm across the Nine? Must I show you its destruction as well?”

“I have seen _enough_ ,” the elf growled. He rose to his feet, eyes burning.

“There are plenty of lives at stake,” Loki urged. “Midgard is dying, but your realm may have a chance.”

“I have seen Alfheim only several times in my youth. They will never accept my rule, nor the refugees of a world they deem lesser than theirs. I... I would not leave my people here to die.”

“There is strength in alliances,” the sorcerer remarked.

_‘What are you doing? You have nothing to offer him. Are you truly satisfied with hiding in the realm of the elves for eternity, risking the wrath of a king if you fail?’_

“There is still the matter of _you_ ,” growled the elf. He glared venomously at the sword upon Loki’s back. “I am rotting, and you are running out of time weaving these delusions. If you are capable of thieving a weapon to save your own hide, what do I stand to gain from risking your betrayal?”

Loki flashed him a feral grin in the darkness, his green eyes wickedly bright. “An ally skilled in stealth, deception, and magic. There is no noble path to fighting a tyrant. Our hands are long stained by centuries of blood, are they not?”

“You did not answer my question.” The elf stepped closer and grasped his wrist in a vice. As gold light surrounded their point of contact, Loki’s flesh faded from pale olive to indigo. He snapped back before the runes of the _Jotnar_ took form, hatred storming behind his eyes.

A bitter smirk curved the elf royal’s mouth. “Well, at least there is one truth you have shown me.”

“You will **not** lay a hand on me again,” snarled the sorcerer. He was not perturbed by the contact; rather the fact the elf could match him for his own games and machinations. The contact still burned against his skin like a brand.

“Perhaps there is a king in you, yet.”

“I seek the throne of Asgard. Odin stole something of great value to Jotunheim, and I fully intend to reclaim it.”

The elf's eyes flickered over him knowingly. He had noted the sorcerer's use of  _Odin_ , not _the Allfather_. “Something of great importance indeed, judging by the glamour you wear as a second skin. Tell me, why do you detest your true form?”

Loki ignored his question, fighting down the foolish urge to draw a sword against the throat of a dead elf. “Odin lorded the Casket of Winters over Jotunheim as a threat of war, should they retaliate against his treaty. I have no care for either Asgard or Jotunheim in their present states.” He paused, collecting himself. “I would see a new era of peace restored.”

_‘You were abandoned, and now your heart rots with the knowledge no vengeance will ever be good enough.’_

Pacing to stand beside him, the royal regarded him with something strange and unreadable. “It seems the nature of our hearts are aligned.”

“Show me to wield the immortal lance,” Loki urged. “In exchange, you may tether your essence to mine. You will not fade, you will not wither. You may not possess my form without my permission, but neither may I banish, trap, or control yours.”

“Such oaths are binding,” mused the elf. “You would so willingly offer yourself to my fate?”

“Only if the terms of agreement are broken. Together, we may traverse between realms to reclaim what is _ours_.”

Loki knew such an alliance was madness. It risked his very existence to the cosmos; bared his soul to an unknown force. Still, he extended his hand to the elf. “Remove my bonds to that of the Titan. As long as we do not stray from these terms, the link holding us shall not sever. We may find a new form for you to inhabit, yet.”

“Who are you to father an agent of death and defy the fate of the universe itself?" asked the elf. "At the very least, I require your name."

“I am Loki," he answered simply.

“Loki of Asgard, Loki of Jotunheim, go in peace.” The would-be king of _Alfheimr_ clasping his arm near the elbow in a formal gesture of greeting. Power surged through his touch to the point of pain. “Know that Nuada Silverlance, Prince of the Clan Bethmoora, shall guide your hand in this time of war.”

Before Loki could respond, he woke gasping on a bed of tapestries and leaves.

The scent of spices, incense and autumn filled his senses. When he sat up and pulled back the armor of his bracer, he blanched at the shape of the burn on his wrist.

The royal seal of Clan Bethmoora.

Nuada Silverlance’s vow echoed through his mind just before darkness claimed him once more.

_“ **We will not fade**.”_


	2. Dusting the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced wth few resources, the princes cobble together some kind of plan. (They hope).

_As armies converged and empires fell_  
_The princes soon turned from the stories they tell_  
_Back they'll return to the wisdom of old_  
_Yet born from the chaos, new threats shall unfold_

.......

_[Shadow Realm: Bethmoora]_

_......._

No army, no allies, no physical way to fight.  

Nuada Silverlance leaned back against the wall of his otherworldly prison and pressed his hands over his eyes. No amount of blinking erased the fissure marks from his hands, palms or fingers. Each tiny crack served as a reminder of his failure in life and betrayal in death; and he dared not look how far those marks spanned, fearing how they darkened in places while others pulsed with the pain of deep bruises.

' _I am operating on borrowed time.'_ How long did he have to find a new body before this form crumbled to dust?

As he rose to his feet, Nuada tugged down his sleeves and willed Loki to wake from magical comatose. While Nuada detested his host, their soul bargain tethered his being to the plane of the living, granting him a second chance to fulfill his purpose.

‘ _At last, I may finally save my people from extinction._ ’ 

Yet in order to aid any other magical beings on Earth, he must face the threat of a faceless tyrant in a war across realms. That particular irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Nuada knew nothing of the Mad Titan in Loki’s nightmares. From what he gathered in the visions the other offered through his dreams, this Titan possessed the same level of arrogance as the sorcerer himself: a claim of authority to rule, a well of wrath and determination to see his dominion established, perseverance to burn however many lives the process required.

Now in death Nuada saw the same traits mirrored in himself. To stay grounded, he must ensure the sorcerer remained loyal to him entirely. Goals aligned, lines drawn. 

Men like Loki played games with fate for more than glory or comfort. As desperate as the sorcerer was to save his own skin, he would risk everything for leverage in claiming a place for himself in the universe. When cards of fate changed hands, strategies shifted in wars. What hand had fate dealt Loki? What things might lead the mage astray, should his former Titan master make contact?

The elf prince knew he must make himself indispensable, and pose a very  _interesting_ threat to keep the sorcerer in line.

As he mulled over strategy, Nuada paced around the shadow-image of Bethmoora in thought. When he reached out to brush his fingers along the wall, the glamour around him dissolved like sugar in rain; rusted pipes emerged in its place, cracked paint and corroding iron. Somewhere the faint sound of water dripped against pavement. Vermin scuttled through tunnels around him, and beyond that echoed the bustle and chatter of a marketplace. 

Loki still resided in the Troll Market.  _Good_. Familiar ground gave Nuada an advantage. His heart swelled with pride and pain knowing the fey communities of the Market thrived still. He ached to walk the winding streets again, greet vendors and hear tales all kinds wondrous and strange. Soon he would witness the state of his people.

His people-- _that_  got him thinking. Trolls, ogres, dwarves, elves, faeries, sprites, goblins...Even without the Golden Army at his disposal, many goblin inventions or schematics could be of use to their plans. While the immortal slaying lance might threaten the Titan alone, Nuada and Loki required a power source equal in might to survive an intergalactic army. 

Feeling the other’s magical exhaustion over their bond, Nuada knew something vital sapped the well of Loki’s power. When he pressed the barrier between their minds, chaotic whispers and broken images filled his own; a maelstrom of Loki’s fragmented memory.

‘ _Just what have you seen and witnessed, sorcerer? It may be of use to us, yet._ ’ Nuada figured he would learn many interesting things about his host. 

No matter the outcome of their alliance, the prince intended to claim a world for himself and his people at the end of this--with or without Loki’s magic.

.......

_[Tunnels, outskirts of Troll Market]_

_......._

As far as soul bargains went, Loki could have lost more than three days’ time. He welcomed the sheer nothingness of magical comatose while it lasted, his dreams free of torture or intergalactic slaughter for the first time in months.

When he finally roused from sleep, his attention passed over Nuada entirely to the hunger gnawing a void through his core. After dragging himself from the tangle of blankets, Loki rustled through his supplies and proceeded to devour three days’ worth of rations. His water stores vanished soon after. When he finally shifted to change out his tunic, a familiar presence filled the back of his mind.

‘ _You certainly took your time._ ’

‘And a fine morning to you,’ Loki groused. Still delirious from sleep, he rubbed furiously at his eyes and waited for the pounding at the back of his brain to cease. 

Nuada hummed.  _‘I began to think you would sleep for an age_.’

  
‘How sweet of you to miss me.’ 

Yawning, Loki stretched each limb with the noise of a man thrice his age.  _Norns_ , everything ached. Hunger still raged in his core, and a miserable glance at his supplies reminded him he needed to gather resources soon. 

While the impending doom of soul debts, infinity stones and wars loomed over his head, Loki’s exhaustion delayed his response. He knew he needed a plan with Nuada. To scheme. Forge allies and gather any weapons to their disposal, evade capture by Midgardian forces and somehow find hope of even surviving an intergalactic army. His last failure could be his only failure going forward, and he wasn’t quite ready to face that.  _Simple_ \--Loki needed to start with one simple goal, then the pieces of a grand scheme would fall into place as they always had.

‘ _We’ve lost considerable time. If one scrying spell drains so much of your power, how might I find you a worthy ally at all?'_

The trickster god sighed. ‘Whatever opinion you hold of me, save it. We’ve the entire day’s journey ahead to hear your complaints.’

 _‘Journey_ ?  _Where do you plan to run, sorcerer?_ ’

‘Somewhere several dozen trolls do not wait to skin me alive for theft. Do you not recall my acquisition of your lance? Our first move should be securing safe passage to Alfheimr or another realm we may find allies, and from there-...’

 _‘No_.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Before Loki could finish his thought, a feverish heat tore down the back of his spine. Pain pounded furiously in his temples with the elf’s rage. He collapsed against the wall, gripping his temples and gritting his teeth in pain.

‘ _I will not run from my people, nor should you from the realm you claim to defend_.’

‘If you distrust me, there are easier ways to say it,’ Loki hissed through his teeth.

‘ _You promised aid to my cause,_ ’ Nuada growled. ‘ _My people are here, sorcerer, not eight worlds away.’_

‘And my aid they shall receive, once we are secure from the enemy!’

‘ _Your enemy_ ,’ Nuada corrected. ‘ _Whom you lured to this realm without a doubt._ ’

‘Fine. You would have us perish defending Midgard? With no allies or weapons, no defenses, all over a matter of your impatience?’ Loki sneered. ‘We need somewhere to go and prepare... _before_  all of this begins.’

Nuada’s temper eased, and with it the pain in the back of Loki’s mind. ‘ _My kind have waged war for millennia. They are scattered and lost now, waiting for refuge. While I know very little of the state of other worlds, it is best we start here in familiar territory. The Troll Market is home to many items we may make use of, as well as fine allies to have.’_

‘You would risk our lives on the possibility of finding answers here.’ Loki shook his head. ‘This is a realm of lawless chaos and trade between worlds. Thieves and beggars and cheats, human or other, will not help us.’

‘ _They are us_ ,’ Nuada argued. ‘ _I lived here for many years. I know where to start looking for weapons, at least. You are tired, sorcerer. Your enemy shall has not tracked you here, yet, but trekking across the cosmos to a new realm is unwise.’’_  
  
‘He will find a way. You have no idea of the extent of his influence.’  
  
‘ _You still live. Take that as a boon. That is proof enough we have time to accomplish a task_ .’  
  
‘And by ‘we’, you mean me.’ Loki winced at the thought of returning to the Troll Market. At least a dozen guards and vendors might identify him by scent alone; then bury a club in his skull before he so much as set foot near their dwellings. ‘Trolls do not forget the scent of their enemies.’   
  
‘ _No, I will help you. Look here…’_

A phantom hand pulled at his own and drew his wrist to the blank slate of the wall. Loki detested the way Nuada’s presence lingered like a second skin beneath his own, how the ghost of a scowl tugged at his features. While accustomed to hosting different entities in his mind, Loki found it odd to actually feel the elf’s body language or shift in moods as if they were his own.

Green flame emerged in the sorcerer’s palm, then sputtered out almost involuntarily. The sorcerer shot back, tense from the foreign magic mingling with his own. ‘What are you doing?’

‘ _Allow me, and I shall show you,’_  replied the elf. ‘ _I cannot control your magic or puppeteer your form, do not fret. I have a plan.’_

Relenting, Loki granted Nuada access to a spark of his magic. The green flame reappeared as his hand began moving in strange, looping sigils, forming patterns of light along the wall. Sourced from illusion spells, this magic would not burn or mar the sewer wall in any way. Loki could remove the image anytime he wished--yet he took great care to memorize it.

‘What is this?’

‘ _A map,’_   Nuada explained. ‘ _The Troll Market holds an Archive and trading post in plain sight. Items and knowledge of great value are traded and stored there._ ’

‘We have your lance as a weapon. What more could we find there?’

‘ _Schematics to goblin mechanics. While my last army and assets were destroyed, we may yet find blueprints to build better machines. Or knowledge of a way to contact someone who can.’_  

‘Why would anyone there help us?’ 

‘ _My people tire of hiding in the shadows as much as I. Until then, I’ll require a bit of your faith.’_

Clenching his jaw, Loki took a step back. They had little else to go on, and his limited well of magic in his current state of exhaustion proved troublesome. ‘Very well. We shall seek something here...for now. But you know we cannot remain on Midgard.’

‘ _No, but before_ _we seek allies elsewhere, we must have a strong foundation. Trust me. This is the right move.'_

A sudden tremor cut the elf’s statement short. Dust and putrid water rained down as pipes rattled from the force, jarring the sorcerer back more several paces. Items scattered around him. As a screech tore through the tunnels some distance away, the map of green light from Loki’s spell vanished. Another tremor rocked the tunnel. Loki paled several shades at the sounds that followed again, sounding closer. He dared not glance behind the illusion-ward of his refuge, and with trembling hands reached for the silver lance near his supplies.

‘Something is coming,’ he remarked.

  
‘ _Something I speculate is already here,’_ Nuada agreed. _‘_ _I suggest we get moving.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading! I do apologize for the delay in chapter two, and for this being shorter than the first. I still feel this needs quite a bit of revision. However, the real action taking place in chapter three and beyond require the most attention and care. Something in the end needed to be posted to get the ball rolling. 
> 
> The next chapter will post June 3, 2019.
> 
> Please leave kudos/comments with your thought, as they are always appreciated. Most of all, have a lovely day!
> 
> -synthe

**Author's Note:**

> With the new Hellboy movie and Avengers: Endgame coming out this month, I couldn't stop thinking about writing this. Now we have this 15+ page plus garbage fire already. Crossovers are hard to handle, but I'm confident this one will be fun! There are many great Nuada/Loki fics on this site, but I wished to contribute what I wanted to see. Gotta wait or write it yourself, eh?
> 
> Please go check out dfotw's "Kings Among Runaways" series, it really is a great depiction of this pairing! Their lovely character explorations stick with you. 
> 
> Next chapter posts May 3, 2019. Please leave comments/kudos and feedback with your thoughts, it does compel more writing + bonus content. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Your resident goblin,  
> -synthe
> 
> ((Edit: apologies for the delay in update! I'm still revising chapter two. Just two more days!))


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